Need to Know Basis
by geniustakethewheel
Summary: Bond almost gaped. He was 007, one of the most well-established, well-respected agents in M16 history. Almost nothing was above his clearance level. Or, the one where Q (who isn't Q yet) is 007's latest target. A 00q fic.
1. No Rest for the Weary

Afternoons in the M16 gym facilities were always the most deserted time of the day. It was the middle of the workday, so none of the office chair lackeys were cluttering up the space. The field agents were usually in the middle of assignments, taking advantage of the daylight hours to avoid the more dangerous London night scene. As for the double-oh agents- well. They liked to sleep in.

But 007 was never one to follow stereotypes, so at 2 pm on a Thursday, he was whaling on a punching bag in the center of the abandoned training room. His own breathing and heartbeat were the only sounds the agent could hear, apart from the steady, rhythmic thud of fist on industrial strength rubber. It had a hypnotizing effect, drawing him deep into his own body, completely focused on the tensing of muscle, the stretching of sinew. Until a voice rang out in the solemn stillness of the room.

"Mr. Bond?"

Bond twitched imperceptibly, the only signal of his surprise, before fluidly pivoting to face the speaker. He scanned the new arrival. It was a man, early twenties, with a tweed suit and a red-bordered name tag reading "Jason."

Management intern. Wonderful.

With a mental sigh, Bond resigned himself to cutting his afternoon ritual short. He shook out his hands, stiff with exertion, and bounced on the balls of his feet, ignoring the sweat trickling down his spine. His eyes stayed locked on the intern, who looked increasingly uncomfortable at the widening silence, a grimace flickering across his face. Bond savored the man's discomfort for a bit longer before taking pity.

"That's me."

The intern nodded, a bit quickly. "You're required for a mission debriefing in M2's office."

Bond raised his eyebrows. He had just gotten back from his previous mission late last night, or rather, in the early hours of the morning. A turnabout so short was very unusual, even for a double-oh. And for M to have her second-in-command assign the mission for an agent of his caliber… Curiosity peaked, Bond strode past the wide-eyed intern, ignoring his attempts to lead the way. No untested amateur was going to show him around his own building. Satisfyingly, the intern subsided to follow in his wake.

"So, details?"

The intern shook his head apologetically. "I'm just the messenger, sir, I don't know any more than you do."

Sir. Huh. Bond liked that.

Bond strode down the fluorescent-lit hallways towards the M branch, ditching the intern somewhere along the way. The door to M2's office was closed, as always. Bond didn't bother to knock. He pulled the door open, taking a measured step into the expensively-furnished space, all mahogany and velvet. M2 was peering at his paperwork, attempting to seem impossibly busy with unspeakably important affairs. Bond rolled his eyes, unfooled.

"Two, you called?"

M2 glanced up, eyebrow quirked. Bond scoffed internally; as if his entrance hadn't been instantly noticed.

"Ah, 007. Yes. Your next mission is ready to launch."

"So I was told."

M2 smiled thinly, a mere twist of the mouth. "The target is a Caucasian male, early to mid-twenties, around 5'9, 60-70 kilos, dark wavy hair to the ears, thick black-rimmed glasses. Intel says he's likely to make an appearance in Shoreditch this evening. Your handler has a picture and will be watching the CCTV feeds; she'll let you know who to mark."

Bond waited a bit for the more interesting information, before realizing M2 wasn't going to say anything else. He furrowed his brow.

"So, what's so important about this guy that you're sending out a double-oh after less than twelve hours of R&R?"

M2 gazed coolly at Bond for a moment before looking back to his papers in a clear dismissal. "That's classified."

Bond nearly gaped. He was 007, one of the most well-established, well-respected agents in M16 history. Almost _nothing_was above his clearance level.

"There's nothing else you can tell me?" he blurted, testing the edges of his limits.

"I've given you all the information you need. Q branch will equip you, then you will go check in with your handler."

Bemused, and not a little disquieted, Bond did just that.

Q branch always made Bond feel a tad prickly. There was just… too much. Too many wires, too many buttons, too many interns scurrying around with menial tasks to accomplish. Too many beeps and little flashing lights. The entire wing had a vague sense of clutter to it, no matter how organized it was. Not to mention, the denizens of Q branch were notoriously dismissive of field agents, and they held a special dislike for agent 007, who never failed to return their precious gadgets in pieces.

But even Bond could see the necessity of such a division. His life had been saved countless times by the ingenious feats of engineering that came out of this sector. So he valiantly pretended he didn't notice the gawking and the whispers that followed him, tried not to intimidate the computer geeks in his path overly much, and made his way to Q's office with all possible haste.

Q's office, more of a workshop really, was a familiar sight to Bond. Since the double-oh agents' missions tended to be especially crucial, they were usually outfitted with equipment directly from the department head. Q himself was an older man, with silvery hair and a rather impressive mustache. He would have been able to pull off a dignified aura if not for his haphazard surroundings. Half-completed projects lay propped against walls and under work benches, and there was no discernable rhyme or reason to the placement of any of the tools. Bond often wondered how Q was able to find his own thoughts in the mess, but so long as his gadgets did their jobs, he wasn't going to complain.

Q peered up at Bond over his latest project as Bond entered the workshop, thick safety goggles creating a perturbing dichotomy with the carefully pressed suit Q wore. Q looked completely bewildered for a moment, before seeming to remember who Bond was.

"007! Hello, M2 notified me that you would heading down to my little corner of paradise." Q giggled slightly. Bond gritted his teeth subtly and carefully didn't roll his eyes.

Setting down a still-flaming blow torch, Q turned in a quick half circle, muttering under his breath. He raked his gaze over the chaos, seemingly searching for something, before letting out a small noise of triumph and marching across the room.

"I have got just the thing for you, Mr. 007!" Q held up an overly-complicated looking contraption with a speaker and an elaborate control panel on the side. His face fell slightly as Bond failed to fall to his knees in awe at the gadget, but his excitable monologue didn't even slow down.

"This is a radio." Bond held back a snort. So that's what it was. "It operates like a walkie-talkie, you hold this red button here to speak, and this knob is the tuner. But these switches on the side here control the _really_ interesting functions-"

Bond allowed his vision to glaze as Q waxed poetic about the inbuilt knife, the electromagnet, the fire-starting kit, and the grappling hook that 'doesn't quite work properly 100% of the time, but will doubtlessly be invaluable once it does.' Bond knew from hard experience that Q's more ostentatious modifications weren't exactly reliable; the fiasco with the mechanical homing pigeon had demonstrated that. As far as Bond was concerned, the radio was just a radio.

Finally, as Q was winding down, Bond got the correct frequency for his handler out of him, then collected his radio/grappling hook, sidearm, and restraining devices and went on his way.

"It was a nice chat, Mr. 007, lovely of you to stop by! We'll have continue at a later date," Q called cheerily as Bond wove his way between bustling tech people in the hall. Bond smiled to himself. Not likely.

Then, a pair of raised voices claimed his attention. Intrigued, Bond listened in.

"—damn well better find him, he hasn't taught anyone else how to use his bloody system yet!"

"It's not my fault the guy didn't show up for work today, he's only been here a week, I barely even know him!"

"Well how the hell are we supposed to finish categorizing the intel if we can't even get into the buggering network?"

"Look, blame Alex, not me, he's the one who decided to revamp all the sorting protocol-"

The heavy steel sliding doors to the wing slid shut behind Bond, cutting off the rest of the argument. He shook his head, grinning wryly; another new intern gone wrong.

The communications center was a breath of fresh air. Neat lines of simple monochrome cubicles formed orderly aisles to walk down, and the walls were punctuated with doors at regular intervals, leading to private offices. It was a complete 180 from Q branch. Administration was always making noise about merging the two divisions. On the surface, it was a logical step; gathering and dispersing information seemed to go hand in hand with organizing and protecting it. But Bond didn't think it would ever work, or at least not with the current leadership. One of the sectors would inevitably rip the other into pieces.

As was customary, the first stop Bond made was Moneypenny's office. The door was already cracked, a clear invitation. She must have caught wind that he was heading this way. He nudged it the rest of the way open with his foot and stood in the doorway.

"Well, if it isn't the infamous Comms ice princess. James Bond at your service," Bond quipped with a smirk and a flamboyant bow. Moneypenny raised an imperial eyebrow from her chair, mouth twitching.

"Flattery won't get you anywhere, agent, as I suspect you know," she returned, leaning forward on her desk. "I hear your beauty rest got cut off at the knees then?"

Bond straightened, grimacing. "Yeah, no idea why this mark is so damn important."

Moneypenny rolled her eyes. "As if you would prefer lazing around back here to being out in the field." Bond conceded the point with a shrug. "So they didn't give you any background intel?"

"Not even a name. Just a general physical description and a vague possible location," Bond grumbled. "How am I supposed to do anything if that's all the information I get? This could be more dangerous than I'm prepared for."

Moneypenny patted him on the arm, eyes sharp with humor. "Don't worry, I'm sure you're still in the running for mystery man of the week."

Bond glared balefully and stalked off towards his handler's cubicle, ignoring Moneypenny's laughter and slamming the door behind him. Just like her to simply brush off his concerns.

As Bond approached the cubicle, his handler stared at him, slightly paler than her usual wan complexion. Bond knew he cut an imposing figure when he was irritated, but his handler was also rather unfortunately skittish. Bond had no idea why they had assigned this woman to be his connection to HQ when she could barely even stomach looking her own agent in the eye. She clearly had no real-world experience whatsoever, and her commands over the radio were unsure, more tentative suggestions than anything. Most of the time, Bond was forced to rely on his own intuition to get himself out of sticky situations, rather than the more sweeping view his handler was supposed to provide.

"Well?" Bond growled, as he arrived at the desk. The woman—Marcy- swallowed and opened her mouth, but for an interminable moment, nothing came out. Bond stared her down, eyes narrowed.

Finally, Marcy found her voice. "I-I-I think that the, uh, our frequency should be, um, 107.3?"

Bond glanced down at his own radio. "Affirmative."

"So, um. You. Are supposed to go to Shoreditch now. To complete your mission."

Bond didn't try to hold back his sigh. "How am I supposed to do that when I don't know where my target is?"

Marcy looked slightly alarmed. "Um, um, I can do that." ("Can you?" Bond muttered under his breath.) "I can monitor the CCTV and run a facial recognition program. I'll tell you over the radio when the, uh, mark shows up."

Without another word, Bond turned and walked down the hall and out of Comms, slipping in the earpiece for the radio. Not that he expected to hear anything but silence for quite some time. It was time to hurry up and wait: he had a man to capture.


	2. Velvet Tongue

Bond had been sitting in this hole-in-the-wall dive pub for over four hours now, with no word from Marcy. He was starting to wonder rather uncharitably if she had gotten too caught up in her game of spider solitaire to keep an eye out for the target. Of course it was always possible that the target genuinely hadn't appeared yet, but that wasn't nearly as fun as mentally ripping his handler a new one.

Bond's fingers traced patterns in the condensation on his beer glass. He was nursing his sixth, fielding pitying looks from the bar tender. Only the saddest of bastards sat in alone on a barstool for four hours subsisting on just beers, after all. But he couldn't afford to get drunk, and he didn't want to chance anything stronger.

It was properly night by now, just the right time for people to start pub crawling. The bar was gradually filling up with all manner of shady characters manifesting from darkened alleyways. Men with dark clothing and darker expressions were beginning to congregate around tables, downing shots with shocking speed. Probably not a place where it would be easy to avoid trouble. Time for Bond to go.

He slid a £20 to the bar tender, who nodded without a word, trying to look sympathetic. Bond stood, stretching subtly so as not to attract attention, and strolled casually towards the door. He rolled his shoulders to loosen them, and patted his jacket pocket out of habit, checking for his radio and his Walther. There were only a few second glances; he was just another guy drinking on a weeknight. Nothing special.

Bond made it out onto the street without incident. He stalked in a random direction, face set in a stony mask of nonchalance. He was _bored_.

"See, Miss Marcy, hon, if you weren't such a blathering imbecile at your job, maybe I wouldn't be taking a walk down the street muttering to myself like a madman," Bond mumbled, knowing the earpiece would pick it up. Not that anyone would hear, considering he was still waiting four hours later.

"Uh, uh, Agent 007, there has been a-a sighting. Um."

Oh. Well. At least he was honest.

"Where?"

Marcy gave Bond an address, about a five minute walk from his current location. He could have made it in a minute-and-a-half, but that might scare off the elusive mystery man. Better not. As he proceeded, Bond ran over what he knew again. Geeky looking guy. Young, scrawny, pale, glasses, the works. Dark hair. Probably dressed in a plain t-shirt and cargo pants, if the stereotypes held true. What could possibly be so important about a uni kid?

The address was a nightclub, with a surprisingly long line out the door. There was a blue façade, and the picture windows were strung with fairy lights. An old-fashioned sign hung over the door. The Book Club.

It didn't look like a typical nightclub. There were no women in skin-tight sock-sized dresses, no men in suits, or even in dress shirts. Instead, everything was graphic t-shirts and flannel and skinny jeans. Maybe the target was more of a hipster than a nerd. Well, at least Bond's leather jacket and dark-wash jeans wouldn't stand out.

Bond got in line and pulled on his single grad student act. He was more than a few years older than ideal at 33, but he knew he could play the part well enough. Just slouch, relax his face to conceal a few lines, and cultivate a general air of poverty. Easy enough.

The attendant at the door asked for ID, and Bond handed her a card. Jay Denton, a 28 year old law graduate on recess from Sandhurst military academy. Close enough to the truth to be believable, but not close enough to link the persona back to Bond. It was his go-to identity for missions like this one.

The inside of the nightclub was spacious and airy, light colored wood and simple light fixtures. There was a stairway leading down into a basement, with a poster advertising an event called Velvet Tongue, presumably some musician later in the evening. Bond sat himself at a small table against the far wall, with a good view of the door and the rest of the room. He glanced around casually, trying to locate the target, but it was a masterfully picked spot, if intentional. Half the men in here fit the target's description.

A waitress appeared with a glass of water. Bond nodded, raising it to his lips.

"Any sign, Marcy?" he murmured behind the cover of his glass.

"Yes, um. Yes."

Bond waited. Marcy was silent. "And?"

"The mark is i-in the basement, 007. But y-y-you should know…"

Oh shite. Was something going wrong already? "Know what?"

"Something odd is going on in that basement," Marcy rushed. She sounded almost… embarrassed?

That was enough for Bond go to on. He stood from his table, taking his water with him as a blunt weapon if nothing else, and sauntered to the stairs. Brushing his hand against his gun, hidden in an inner pocket, Bond stepped lightly down the stairs, keeping to the sides to prevent squeaking. He glanced around to ensure no one was approaching, then crouched down to see what was going on in the floor below.

There was another room with tables scattered throughout, all packed with people. The lighting was even darker here, and there was no musician to be found, or indeed music of any kind. What there was instead was a man on a small stage, holding a microphone, and wearing nothing but a sheer pair of black briefs.

Bond stared. Then he smirked. Brilliant. Who would notice yet another twenty-something when there was a naked man on a stage to notice instead?

"So where is he?" he asked Marcy, still unable to tear his eyes away from the man. He was making a joke about some anti-masturbation website. Probably not quite a kink club then.

"Um. Um." Bond could practically see Marcy desperately trying to look anywhere but the main attraction. While she busied herself with helpless stuttering, Bond scanned the room, trying to find the target himself. There- no, his hair isn't curly. That one maybe? No. Too tall. Maybe in the corner over there—

"The target, um, is seated at the table in the back corner. He's alone."

Perfect. With flawless poise, Bond rose from his position and continued down the stairs, pausing politely as the naked man wrapped up his little comedic act and cleared the stage for the next performer. Then he glanced over his shoulder, and had to stop himself from freezing.

This man… was not exactly scrawny. A better word would be lithe. His hair was dark and curly, yes, as well as artfully styled, a strand brushing over his forehead, nearly touching his predicted black-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a tightly-fit black button down with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, the skinny jeans so common in The Book Club, accented with simple black combat boots and a parka draped over the back of his chair. Practically the uniform for a hipster in an off-the-wall nightclub.

Overall, he was… quite nice to look at, actually. Far too nice to have a well-known public face in the underworld. He would get torn apart.

Damn it. Oh well. Bond would just change his game plan a bit. He had successfully taken down enemies he was genuinely attracted to before. Seduction rarely failed him, and if anyone screamed 'receptive to male flirting,' it was this one. Something about the way he was sitting, perhaps. Or wishful thinking. Worth a shot though.

Bond looked back on the stage, now holding a tiny Asian girl in a corset, then turned fully and sauntered towards the mark. He looked up at Bond as Bond drew closer, eyes flashing faintly with confusion and a tiny sliver of alarm. It was reasonable enough; the mark almost certainly knew people were after him.

Bond leaned in close, watching the other man intently. "Mind if I share a table with you?"

"Not at all," the man replied, a slightly breathless tenor. Point for Bond. This kid will never know what hit him.

Without flourish, Bond pulled out the other chair and sat, hooking an ankle over his knee. He eyed the Asian corset girl for a moment, before leaning over the table again. He spoke lowly, forcing the man to draw in close to hear.

"Any idea what's going on here?"

The man laughed. He had a nice smile. "Frankly, no idea. I just came down to see what all the fuss was about."

Bond grinned and nodded. "What's your name?"

"Xander, you?" The name rung a faint bell in the back of Bond's mind. He knew better than to ignore it, but he didn't have time to suss it out just now.

"Jay," he responded, holding out a hand, hoping that the target wouldn't notice his gun callouses. Xander took hold of the hand and shook twice, surprisingly firm. His hands were slender, minimally marked. Probably not an assassin. Dirty money, maybe?

"Pleasure to meet you, Jay." Bond didn't think he imagined the slight drawl on the word 'pleasure.' Kid had spunk. Interesting.

They fell into silence again, watching Asian corset girl finish her dramatic reading of erotic poetry. It didn't quite make Bond cringe, but it was a near thing. A glance at Xander revealed a similar sentiment plastered across his face. The man was ridiculously easy to read, so there was little chance he was involved in anything which required him to bald-faced lie. Dirty money was out. _Why_ was he so bloody _important_?

There was a smattering of applause as the girl bowed awkwardly around the corset, and shambled off-stage, replaced by a tall leggy redhead in a slinky black dress and sky-high heels. Bond looked her over appreciatively, before remembering that he was supposed to be trying to pick up Xander. He glanced back hastily, but Xander didn't seem to have noticed, instead focused on swirling his cocktail idly with a stir straw.

"So what brings you to the London nightlife on a Thursday evening?" Bond asked, honestly curious. What were the odds he could get real info out of the man?

"Oh, this and that. Had to get out of the apartment, you know, it's been, erm, quite the week." Q glanced down and to the side, laughing nervously. Child's play.

"What do you do?"

Q looked back at Bond, eyes slightly widened. He swallowed, obviously trying to hide it. "I work with computers," he answered, voice ever so slightly shaky. A hacker, then? It fits. But first, have to get him off edge.

"Really? My sister does as well, went to Uni for four years, ended up with a cushy Fortune 500 entry position. It's a great industry now-a-days.

Xander grinned, sardonic. "That it is. What's your field?"

Bond was prepared for that one. "I just finished Law school, working my way through a military officer track now. Sandhurst gave a 24 hour leave. Figured I'd better take advantage of every last minute." Bond smirked rakishly, unsubtly looking Xander up and down. The man flushed a bit, eyes lighting up with interest.

"A wise decision, I'm sure. Any plans for the rest of the evening, then?" he asked.

"Not as such. Yourself?" Bond returned.

Xander glanced down at his glass, before looking up at Bond again, a small smile in place. "No, but I could be convinced."

Another point for Bond. "What say we leave the erotic poetry for the less fortunate? I'm sure we can find… other ways to occupy ourselves."

Xander bit the corner of his mouth. Bond allowed himself to stare. "That's what I like to hear."


	3. Bondage

Bond and Xander sat through a few more acts, with varying levels of quality, as Xander finished his drink. As they stood to leave, Bond set down a few notes. ("Oh please, this is hardly a proper courtship anyway." "Ah, but I insist.") Xander donned his parka and led the way up the stairs, weaving gracefully between tables and out the door, with Bond following in his wake.

The atmosphere outside was almost festive. The air was brisk, almost nippy compared to the crowded warmth of The Book Club. Chatter and laugher and golden light spilled out the doors and windows lining the street. The wind had picked up somewhat, and it wound about Xander's head, tossing his perfectly styled hair every which way. His skin reddened in the chill. He looked quite bedraggled, and Bond hadn't even gotten him into the bedroom yet.

Speaking of which… "So tell me Xander, where exactly are you taking me?"

Xander's head twitched in Bond's direction, and his face softened with a sheepish smile. "Oh, how silly of me, of course you wouldn't magically know somehow. I have a hotel room down the street."

Interesting. "A hotel room? I thought you said you had an apartment?" Bond poked the edges of Xander's story.

"Oh, I mean, yes. Obviously yes. But. Like I said before, I just had to get away for a bit. And hotels are altogether more convenient, wouldn't you agree?" It was a rather blatant ploy to distract him, but Bond let Xander believe he had fallen for it by nodding agreeably.

The walk was quiet, but not awkward. There was real sexual tension between the two, ratcheting up and reverberating in the silence, until Bond was practically thrumming with it. By the time Xander and Bond had arrived in from of a classy-looking Hilton, Bond was seriously considering maintaining his persona until after they'd had sex, and taking him prisoner later. The idea had tactical merit; everyone knew that men were at their most vulnerable in the drowsy afterglow. The problem was, of course, that the disadvantage would extend to Bond as well. But Bond was far better trained, and Xander wouldn't be expecting it. And at least Bond wouldn't have to wonder what it would have been like, and Xander would have some pleasant memories in whatever hellhole M16 stuck him in. Really, it was the least Bond could do.

The elevator ride seemed to last an eternity. Of course, _of course_ Xander would find himself a room on the eighth floor, not quite short enough to sprint up the stairs instead, and not quite long enough for Bond to crowd him back against a glassy elevator wall and have his way with him. When the doors slid apart, Bond and Xander were out before they were even fully open, almost jogging down the hall, presumably towards Xander's room. As Xander fumbled with the key, Bond couldn't resist leaning up behind him, herding him close to the doorframe, kissing at his jawline. Xander shuddered, taking a single deep breath, and clutched his wallet tighter to avoid dropping it altogether. So easily flustered. Bond grinned.

Finally, _finally, _the door was open, and Bond and Xander were tumbling inside. The door had hardly closed behind them before Bond was grabbing Xander by the wrists and pinning him back against it, Xander almost lifted off the ground with the force of Bond's grip. The kiss grew very heated very quickly, with Xander tensing his arms, testing Bond's hold, and Bond's teeth quickly finding themselves clamped on Xander's lower lip, perhaps a bit too hard. Xander arched ever so slightly and made a sound in the back of his throat, not quite a whimper, but it was close enough for Bond's purposes.

Bond took Xander's hands and wrapped them over his shoulders and behind his neck, then grabbed Xander's thighs, tucking them close around Bond's own body, lifting Xander off the floor. The kiss was never broken. Xander clung tightly to Bond, shifting impatiently at the insufficient angle.

Angling a knee under Xander to support him, Bond released one thigh and slid his free hand under Xander's shirt, scratching at his side. Xander twitched away with a gasp. Ticklish? Would need to be investigated.

Xander pulled away from Bond's mouth for a moment, hissing lowly when Bond simply attacked his neck instead. "I've got- a condom, here, let me—" he gasped, freeing one hand to reach down into the pocket of his parka while the other twisted into the hair above Bond's ear. Bond ignored him, completely focused on the marks he was leaving along Xander's jugular—

Then several things happened at once. Xander's legs unwrapped from around Bond's waist, the receiver was yanked out of Bond's ear, and 60,000 volts of electricity tore through Bond's body.

With an involuntary yell, Bond fell to the floor, convulsing helplessly. As he tried desperately to control his limbs and make sense of what had happened, something slammed against his sternum. It vibrated briefly, then thin metallic cables shot out from it, wrapping around Bond's torso and arms, and crawling down around his legs, effectively immobilizing him within seconds. By the time Bond had recovered enough to look around, he was unable to move much more than a twitch.

Xander stood over him, panting slightly, but his face held an unfamiliar expression of amusement. He ran his hands through his hair, adjusted his glasses, and straightened out his wrinkled shirt, before bending down and unhesitatingly removing the equipment from Bond's jacket. Xander turned his back to deposit the items on the desk. He seemed to pause for a moment, fidgeting his arms. When he moved out of Bond's line of sight, the radio was in several useless parts.

Shite.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm fairly certain bondage is at least third date material," Bond attempted, concealing his worry behind a veneer of irreverence. Xander laughed.

"I would normally agree, but I suspect you were rather willing to go there yourself," he shot back, leaning against the table and indicating the handcuffs next to the dissembled radio. "And I should probably tell you, if you struggle too hard in those wires, you'll get shocked again. I'm well aware you'll try it anyway, but you can't say I didn't warn you."

Double shite. Time to info gather.

"Well, it's clear your plans for me are rather dirtier than assumed," Bond drawled, "but are we talking the fun kind or the criminal kind?"

Xander was silent for a moment, gazing at Bond assessingly. Then he spoke. "I needed to capture an agent to be a captive audience for what I have to say. The how wasn't important. But then you made it very clear what your plan for capturing me was, so I elected to return the favor."

Captive audience? "Wish you'd waited to enact your evil machinations for another 20 minutes or so," Bond leered. Xander smirked.

"Likewise. But men like you are dangerous, agent. I'm not sure I could've handled you in bed. Better not take my chances."

Bond snorted. But no time for banter. Info gather. "I'm betting Xander isn't your real name, is it?"

Xander tilted his head. "Actually, it is, of a sorts. Short for Alexander. I usually go by Alex."

And with a nearly audible click, the niggling feeling of recognition from before snapped into place. _Look, blame Alex, not me, he's the one who decided to revamp all the sorting protocol…_

"Wait, you're the missing intern from Q branch?"

Xander looked taken aback, then he beamed. "Very good. I won't ask how you put that together."

Bond felt abruptly cold. Xander-no, _Alex_ was a _traitor_. And if there was one type of person in his line of work that Bond hated, it was traitors. Suddenly, Bond was enraged at how easily he had fallen for Alex's lies.

"You're a bloody spy," Bond snarled. Alex's smile was wiped off his face instantly.

"No, I'm not, though I suppose that is what you would think. This is where the captive audience part comes in."

Bond sneered. "And what makes you think I would listen to anything you have to say?"

Alex considered. "Fair enough. I've given you no reason to trust me. The only thing you'll believe is what you find for yourself. So let me ask you a question, agent." He crouched down, leaning over Bond slightly. "Do you really know why you're after me?"

Bond paused, and didn't answer. He didn't know, truthfully. He didn't know anything, and it grated against his instincts.

Alex watched him for a moment longer, then leaned back on his heels, sighing. "But that we had met under better circumstances. I think we could've been something." He smiled softly, sadly, running a hand over his eyes.

Bond laughed vindictively. "Not bloody likely. I never would have looked at you twice if you hadn't been my target." A lie, but Alex didn't need to know that.

Alex went very still, just for a second, before his hand fell away from his face, revealing a smooth mask. There was a hint of hurt about the eyes, and Bond viciously clamped down on his faint sense of guilt. The man was a traitor, he didn't deserve kindness. _But was he a traitor, really?_

Alex straightened, rising to his feet again. "You're a remarkable actor then. But be as it may, I've done my part. If you want answers, and I suspect you do, you'll find them yourself." He turned away, going to a laptop on the couch Bond hadn't noticed and tapping at the keyboard, almost too fast to distinguish one click from the next. His back was turned, his attention was occupied. Perfect timing.

Bond wrenched savagely at his bindings. He promptly received another unpleasant electric shock. Alex didn't even look around.

As Bond lay there, panting and juddering from his latest round of electrotherapy, Alex flitted about, collecting electronic equipment and the other various odds and ends that always ended up scattered around a hotel room. As he stuffed them all untidily into a backpack, he glanced at Bond again.

"I expect your backup will be here shortly, I'm sure you've found a way to let them know about your predicament without the radio. So I'll be on my way. I don't expect we'll be meeting again." The thought left Bond feeling strangely regretful.

Alex continued, pulling a cloth and a bottle of clear liquid from his backpack. "I do hope I've at least raised some intriguing questions for you." He crouched down by Bond again.

"This is just chloroform, there will be no damage from anything I do with this," he said smoothly, pouring a carefully measured amount of liquid onto the cloth. "You'll simply go to sleep, and when you wake up, you'll be unbound, with a mild headache, and I'll be gone."

Without further ado, Alex pressed the cloth firmly over Bond's mouth and nose. Bond futilely tried to hold his breath, but it was no use. He wasn't going to able to escape this.

As Bond finally succumbed and breathed in, he heard Alex say, "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Bond."

Bond's last thought before everything went black was '_How does he know my name?'_

Alex was true to his word. When Bond woke, several minutes later, he was surrounded by medical personnel from M16. He had a headache. The device restraining him was gone, along with all of Bond's equipment. And Alex was nowhere to be found.


End file.
